


Part of the Cure

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, amtdi, first-time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're in Holly, Colorado, hunting fairies, which is the stupidest thing Dean has ever heard of."  (Sam/Dean, adult, AMTDI, silliness).  8,200 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of the Cure

  
They're in Holly, Colorado, hunting fairies, which is the stupidest thing Dean has ever heard of. But they've seen weirder and dealt with worse, so he'll put up with it. He sits in the passenger seat of the Impala, waiting for Sam to come back from the Motel office, and studying dad's old journal. There are a few pages on fairies in there, pages torn out of books and scribbled on in ballpoint pen, but they were mostly images and notes on how to find them, not so much on how to kill or what to watch out for.

Sam comes out of the office and opens the driver side door. "Know what we're up against?" he asks, climbing in and starting the car.

"Fairies," Dean says, closing the book.

"Fairies?" Sam repeats as he pulls the car around the motel complex and up in front of room 8.

"Not the nice kind." They get out and Sam unlocks the room's door. "The nasty kind-- eats people, crazy, that kind."

"I didn't know there was a nasty kind. They only had a single king left, by the way."

"Whatever," Dean says, sitting down at the table and pulling the laptop out of his bag. "Just so long as you don't snore."

"I don't snore, Dean," Sam grumbles. "Really, fairies?"

"I think so." Dean pulls up a local newspaper on the screen. "There have been a few missing persons, followed by a few skeletons found in the woods south of town, by the river. They were identified as those missing people, but they'd only been missing a few days, definitely not long enough for them to decompose."

Sam leans on the back of the chair, looking over his shoulder. "'The bones were found completely clean, all of the flesh inexplicably gone,'" he reads. "'There were no marks of a wild animal, and no signs of a struggle.' Is that what fairies do?"

"Dad marked this town down as having a fairy infestation," Dean snorts, clicking through a few more newspaper stories. "I don't know why he didn't deal with it himself; they can't be that difficult."

Famous last words, Sam thinks, but aloud he says, "Should we head to the police station, ask them about the bodies?"

"Don't think we need to," Dean replies. "This story right here has the location where they were found."

It's the middle of the afternoon, so they hang around in the motel room, looking up details from the book their father had taken his pages, and watching trash television. Thursdays never had anything good on, Dean complains, and discovers that Sam has fallen asleep. Dean gets up and turns the TV down. He goes over to the window and pushes aside the curtain. The sun is low in the sky, near setting, and what little he had found mentioned that the best time for finding fairies was at night. Apparently, they glowed.

Dean feels his stomach growl, and considers calling out for delivery. He does, and a promised thirty minutes later, pizza arrives. Sam stirs when Dean opens the door to pay the guy, and sits up, looking sleep-slow, and, Dean tries to pretend he doesn't think so, kind of adorable.

"Honey, I made dinner," Dean says, opening the box on the table.

They eat and watch _Jeopardy!_, and Sam stows the rest of the pizza in the fridge. Dean goes outside and unlocks the trunk of the car. They unload guns, for starters, although both of them suspect neither bullets nor rock salt will do any good against fairies. They gird themselves with a hunting knife apiece, and Dean tucks a smaller blade into his jacket.

Sam examines the map back inside the room, trying in vain to get a close enough look at the town to have roads that meant anything. All he can see is Route 50, but the river is clear enough. 89 runs down from 50 on the edge of town, and Sam traces it with his finger.

"Okay," he says, picking up the map when Dean pokes his head in the door, "I think I have a place to start." He follows Dean back out to the car and climbs into the passenger seat. "We can take 89 out of town heading south until we get to the river, and then we can park and make our way into the woods from there."

"That the best you've got?" Dean asks, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot onto the dark, lamp-less street.

"Afraid so. The map wasn't detailed enough, and I doubt triple A makes a 'Details of Holly' version. There ought to be a hiking trail, or some kind of sign that people go there... one of those articles mentioned the location as near a popular swimming area."

"Fair enough." Dean makes a right. 89 is even darker, residential, as they leave the light of the town. It isn't late, but it gets dark fast this time of year. They rumble down the road for a few minutes in silence, and then looming in the darkness they can see the sides of the bridge. Dean pulls over, and they get out, clicking on their flashlights.

Sam leads the way down a steep bank, where the road rose to cross the river, and then they are surrounded by trees. They push their way through, not trying to be stealthy, but unable to break the habit. They hold branches aside for each other, and warn one another of unsteady footing, speaking in whispers. The beams of their flashlights dance over the ground and the foliage, casting weird shadows around them.

Ten minutes later, Dean pauses to zip up his coat, and that's when he sees the flash. It's small, but it's a bright white, and he freezes. "Sam," he hisses. _"Sam."_

Sam stops, looking back at him. The both turn off their flashlights, staring around them into the darkness. The silence is deafening, and Dean can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He can hear Sam breathing quietly. He can hear something approaching them.

In about eight seconds, they are surrounded by four bright lights, and the sound of guns being drawn.

"Hands up, boys," a loud voice says, rather unnecessarily. Dean lets out the breath he'd been holding. Cops. Nothing more. Stupid. "What are you two doing out here?" the voice demands. Sam and Dean hold up their hands, blinking in the advancing flashlight beams, trying to see the faces behind them.

"Uh," Dean says, and Sam says, "Camping."

"Camping," the voice repeats, belonging to a big black officer who's regarding them skeptically. "Where's your gear?"

"We can't find it," Dean puts in, shrugging helplessly. "Sammy here had to take a piss, and I didn't want him to go off and get lost, so... I went with him."

"And now we're both lost," Sam agrees, trying to come across as earnest while he shoots Dean a dirty look.

"Well, it's not safe around here," the officer says. "Haven't you two heard?"

"Heard what?" Dean asks.

"Nevermind. You camping with anyone?"

"No, just us two," Sam says.

"That your car back there?"

"Yeah." Dean looks around, worrying for a moment that something has happened to his baby.

"You gotta move it," another of the officers says. "You'd better find somewhere more... civilized to stay tonight, and come back in the morning and get your stuff."

+-+-+-+

In the morning, instead of going back to the woods, they head to the police station, like Sam had originally suggested, and which he is quick to remind Dean of.

"We were out camping, last night," Dean explains to the lady cop at the desk, ignoring Sam, "and we were wondering if we could talk to one of the officers that helped us, you know, find our way." He gives her a winning smile, leaning on the desk and running his fingers lightly along the edge.

"Sure," she says. "I'll go get Officer Bryant. I'll be right back."

She comes back in a few minutes with the big black cop from the night before. He takes them into his office, and they sit in faux wood chairs on faux comfortable cushions. "What can I do for you boys? You find your stuff okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "found that camp site no problem in the light. But you said it-- it wasn't safe? It's not much of an area for cougars or anything, right? We looked it up."

Officer Bryant folds his hands on the desk. "Here's the thing, boys. Recently we've had some, trouble, in the vicinity."

"Trouble?" Sam asks. "You mean you think we'd cause trouble?"

"No, no." Bryant shakes his head. "You're not from round here, right?"

They nod, trying to move the conversation along more quickly.

"Well, recently we've had some folks go missing. There's a trail in there, runs along the river. People like to swim down there; it's pretty popular. Anyway, we've had some people wander off... I guess it's good you decided to accompany your buddy here off to..."

"Wander off?" Sam repeats, brow furrowing.

"Yeah," Bryant says. "A few people reported missing in the late afternoon. It's not swimming weather, so people aren't down there so much right now, but it makes a nice romantic fall walk."

"So, couples?"

"No, usually an individual from a group." Bryant unfolds his hands and leans back in his chair, realizing he's disclosing more information than necessary. "Besides, that's not a licensed camping area, and I'm going to have to ask you boys to remove your things and find somewhere else to stay."

"Oh yeah, of course, sorry," they say together, standing up. They shake hands with the officer and thank him again for finding them the night before, and leave in a hurry.

As they walk back to the motel, Sam says, "Dean, maybe they're lured away."

"Lured away from the group? Maybe. During the day, though?"

"We don't know about fairies," Sam says. "They might be a daytime kind of evil."

Dean nods and sighs and pushes his hands into his pockets. "We should probably do some better research, shouldn't we?"

+-+-+-+

The library is somewhat enlightening. They find other instances of missing persons' skeletons being found completely clean, all in the area. Some of the newspapers came from the nearby, larger town of Granada, Colorado. All of the remains were found near the river. Fairies preferred running water, Dean says, referencing dad's book, open to a page with a drawing of a skinny man with a mean, pinched-looking face, huge wings, and a huge, over-exaggerated penis.

Everything else they find, both in a weird-looking book with a similar drawing on the cover (turns out to be the book the page came from), and on the internet, are a reiteration of what they already know. The fairies eat human flesh, down to the bone. They are also apparently very enticing, luring people off into the woods with their gentle voices and their tiny blue lights. They enchanted their victims with their legendary sweetness, wined them and dined them, put them to sleep, and then methodically and thoroughly consumed them. They also love sex. Preferably human sex.

Dean isn't sure how they manage to witness, or whatever, this, but he writes it down next to the equally odd notion of fairy possession. What was a fairy doing possessing a person like a demon would? There wasn't any reason for it, especially since they wanted to eat their victims, not live in them. Unless they get their sex fix by taking over a human body and using it for their pleasure. Dean draws a circle around the two notes and writes a little question mark, screwing up his face in distaste. Fucking fairies. Literally. Creepy.

Sam and Dean leave the library a little after two in the afternoon. They eat lunch at a diner, and as Dean is writing down his cell number on the check for the cute waitress, Sam says, "We should get going."

"In a second," Dean says, leaving the girl a big tip and winking at her as she passes their table again.

"Late afternoon, Dean," Sam insists, taking the check away from him. "Let's go."

The Winchesters walk back to the motel and Dean pops the trunk. They load themselves up, again. Sam pulls a little hand torch out of a compartment and pockets it. Dean checks the cartridge in his Colt, and then feels for the blade in his boot.

"I'm not sure I like going in unprepared," Sam says.

"Who says we're unprepared?"

"We don't actually know how to deal with fairies. They like water, so I'm guessing fire's a good place to start, but..."

"Okay," Dean says, and finds a pack of matches tucked into an inner pocket of his leather jacket. "Good problem solving, Sammy." He grins.

Sam rolls his eyes, and gets in the car.

This time, the drive to the woods isn't as tentative. Dean sees a road they didn't see before, a turn off before the bridge, that runs west, next to the river. It wasn't marked on the map. He turns down it, and parks the car about two hundred yards from route 81. Sam points out the remains of the old riverbed, where the river has shifted and left a swath of green curve. This accounts for the low point they clambered through the night before. They make their way through maybe fifty feet of trees and brush, and come upon a white, sandy clearing. There are signs of human occupation, mostly footprints and trash. The ground is soft under their feet, and Dean wrinkles his nose at the sticky sand on his boots. Ahead of them is another stand of trees, and on the other side of that is the river.

It starts to get dark. The twilight creeps up on them, and Dean finds himself squinting more, trying to see into the trees. The evening folds around them silently, and Sam looks uncertain. Well, not so much uncertain as uncomfortable.

"What's wrong, Sam," Dean teases, "You scared of the dark?" It isn't much as taunts go, and he's a little annoyed he couldn't think of anything better.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam growls. "Everything looks weird in this light-- I can't tell what we're looking for."

Dean shakes his head, and is about to say something, when over Sam's shoulder he sees a tiny blue flash. It's like a firefly; three feet off the ground, and soft, pulsing. He stares, and Sam turns around.

"What? What did you see?"

The flash comes again, and then there's another one, a little higher, farther away.

"Did you see that?" Dean asks, stepping close to Sam and handling the gun at his belt.

"Yeah," Sam breaths, and together they take a few steps closer to the where the light was. Another small, blue light flashes, and as the evening darkness wins over the twilight, they can see more of them, gathering slowly. "I think we found them." He turns on his flashlight, and Dean follows his example. Dean tries to shine the flashlight on the little blue lights, but he can never quite catch them in time. "What now?" Sam asks.

"We follow them," Dean replies in a whisper. "Get them to lead us to their... lair or whatever."

They follow the lights into the trees. Every few seconds they see a little blue flash, leading them on. It's subtle, and Dean acknowledges that they must be sneaky. The blue lights are enticing, and every time they think they've lost track of them, another one flashes, a little farther off. They can tell there's more than one, just like there's always more than one firefly. He can feel Sam at his side, warm and solid. He can hear Sam's breathing, quiet and controlled.

The lights being to converge, more and more of them. The darkness of the night obscures the edge of the tree line, and Dean shines his light back the way they came. He frowns.

"It's not far in either direction," Sam whispers, meaning the river, and safety. They both wonder whether the fairies can hear them.

A fairy lands on Dean's shoulder, and they realize they are now surrounded. Blue lights pulse on and off all around them. Dean, surprised, waves at the fairy as if it were a bug, and it dodges him and settles back down.

"Don't worry," the fairy says, in a voice that sounds like an old radio covered in honey, "We're not going to hurt you."

"No," voices around them agree, and Sam takes a step towards Dean, shining his flashlight around them. Dean tries to brush the fairy off his shoulder again. "Not going to hurt you!"

"No offense," Dean says, "but we kind of know why we're here. You're going to try to eat us."

Sam gives him this look, like _what the hell did you say that for?_ Dean shrugs, and yelps. The fairy hovering near his ear just _bit_ him. Hard. He smacks at it again, and this time makes contact, splattering blue mush all over his neck and the collar of his shirt.

Suddenly the little fairy lights aren't so welcoming anymore, and Sam jerks in surprise as a fairy bites him too, on the hand. He squashes it against his jeans, like a huge mosquito, and the fight is on. Sam pulls out the little torch, flicking it on, and sears fairies as they come zooming at him, teeth bared. Dean adopts a wilder approach, flailing his arms and smacking the fairies dead. He pulls his leather coat up around his neck, protecting the sensitive skin there, and darts through the thick cloud of fairies, trying to find their source.

He hears Sam yelping in pain behind him, but in a second he can see where the fairies are coming from: a hole in an old tree about ten feet in front of him. He pulls the matches out of his pocket and douses the pack in liquid starter. Then he realizes that the wet matches won't light by themselves now, and he turns around, looking for Sam. Sam is caught in a dense cloud of blue flashing lights, and Dean yells, "Sam! C'mere!"

Sam ducks and bats his way out, followed by the fairies, angry and high-pitched and vicious as hell, and he runs up to Dean, tiny torch still blazing. He's got a weird look on his face, something like surprise and distaste, but Dean holds up the pack of matches and Sam lights it, and into the tree it goes.

There is a pause, in which Sam lights a few more fairies on fire and Dean watches the tree, hopeful, hopeless. Then a deep crackling starts, and the fairies whining gets louder and shriller, and all of the fairies hovering in the air around Sam and Dean suddenly leave them and fly in a frenzy into the hole.

"That wasn't smart," Dean mutters, and grabs Sam's arm, pulling his brother away from the tree. An orange glow flickers slowly into life from inside the hole, and Dean backs up quickly, dragging Sam with him.

"Dude," Sam says, pulling his arm out of Dean's grip, but the reprimand is soft, and he looks a little sheepish, confused.

The tree goes up in flames. The wailing starts again, shrieking through the woods around them, a thousand tiny voices all crying out at once.

Out of some kind of morbid curiosity, they stay to watch it burn. Dean is a little worried about the trees around the fairy tree, and the dry leaves on the ground, but it seems like the little fires that start in the other trees quickly go out, while the one old, huge tree burns like a torch.

Finally, the fire begins to die down, and they realize the wailing has stopped. The silence and the sound of the burning tree ring in their ears. Dean rubs his hand across his face, and Sam shifts the torch from hand to hand, wincing. Dean feels the little bloody welts on his neck and face and shoulders, and can see them on Sam too; places where the fairies bit through his shirt, or bit his hand. The spots of blood grow, but not alarmingly, and Dean knows he'll be okay.

Sam shakes his head. "I guess that's done," he says.

Dean looks at him sideways. "You all right, man?"

"Yeah, fine," Sam says. "I just-- I think I swallowed one."

"Gross, dude."

+-+-+-+

They drive back in silence, Dean's tape collection selecting Jimi Hendrix's "Fire" for them. Dean looks at Sam a few times, feeling nervousness crawl in his stomach. He never mentioned the fairy possession to Sam, thinking it wouldn't be an issue, and when had that ever been true? He shouldn't keep information from him, _ever_, and he's worried he's about to pay for it.

If Sam's possessed by some horny crazy fairy that just wants to fuck, Dean's not sure he can handle that. He's long gotten over the obsession he has with Sam, long come to terms that he wants his brother in ways he shouldn't, and been pretty much okay with it. He ignores Sam when he comes out of the bathroom mostly naked, turning his face away and pretending it doesn't bother him, doesn't send heat through him. He's gotten good at pretending he wasn't just staring at Sam when Sam looks up at him, especially if Sam's lying on the bed, shirt hiked up to expose the base of his spine, dimples in his back, or if Sam's taken off his overshirt and is sitting at the table in one of his soft t-shirts, the sleeves tight on his biceps, checking his email or looking up news articles.

He's really good at picking up girls. He's always been good at that. Now he just flirts and takes them home sometimes, to take the edge off. He's not about to turn down a good fuck, although what he'd prefer is usually sitting at the bar, talking to the locals, or ignoring him and pretending to not think he's a pig. He knows Sam's gonna be there when he gets back, usually asleep, but always waiting for him. Sometimes, if he's drunk enough, he'll creep closer to Sam's bed and sit down on the floor, next to Sam's head. He'll rest his head on the edge of the mattress and breath in the smell of Sam, pure and simple when he's asleep, clean from a shower, no blood or monster gore or complicated stuff. He knows it's creepy to do that to Sam, so he doesn't stay long, just gets up again, undresses, and falls asleep in his own bed, a little frustrated, but dealing.

So if Sam's going to be induced by a fairy to take someone back to their room and fuck them senseless, Dean's going to have to be far away. Or, he's going to have to avoid it altogether and make the fairy go away unsatisfied.

Sam's shifting uncomfortably beside him as they pull up to the motel. Dean says, "C'mon, Sammy, let's get you patched up," as he gets out of the car. Sam follows him awkwardly, slowly, and as he gets into the room he pushes past Dean too quickly, heading for the bathroom. Dean stares after him. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," Sam says through the door. "I don't need you to put band-aids on my boo-boos, Dean. I'm not five."

"Well, mine hurt like hell," Dean says, sitting on his bed and pulling off his boots. He can hear Sam laugh. "And I've got the first aid kit out here, so when you want it, you just let me know." He pulls off his flannel and t-shirt and winces as he touches the fairy-bite welts. They're red and sore, oozing blood, and he hopes they're not infected. Who knows what fairies-- oh right, human flesh. Dean shudders and scrambles to open the antiseptic.

He's dabbing antiseptic at the bites on his wrists when Sam comes out of the bathroom again, and he looks up at Sam's gasp. Sam's eyes are wide, scared, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

"I've had worse, man," he says. "What's your problem?" But he thinks he knows exactly what Sam's problem is, and he doesn't feel like dealing with it. Or, he _wants very much_ to deal with it, but he doesn't think Sam would thank him for that.

"Uh," Sam says.

"Okay, look," Dean sighs, dropping his hands and cutting to the chase. "You might be possessed."

"Excuse me?!" Sam asks, taking a step forwards.

"Fairies can possess humans, and all they want is to fuck."

Sam looks stunned, and a bit idiotic. Dean can feel his face heating. Sam is hard in his jeans, and not even trying to hide it.

"Dude," he says, waving a hand at him. "We'll go out. Find a bar. Find a girl. Just c'mere and let me clean you up, and then we'll go."

"No way," Sam says, his fingers clenching white on the doorframe. "I'll do it myself. I'll find another way." He steps back and slams the door again.

"Sam." Dean gets up from the bed and crosses to the closed door. "It's not a big deal." Oh, it so is. One look at Sam, horny, eyes dark, flushed, a little sweaty, and Dean's thrumming with energy. He knows he shouldn't even be pressing Sam, shouldn't touch him right now.

"No, it's fine," Sam calls. "I'll just... deal with it. Stay in here. As long as it takes."

"Don't be stupid."

"Damn it, Dean, why didn't you say anything?!" Dean hears Sam slam something down on the counter, and then a muffled curse.

"Well, I didn't expect you to eat one. I thought the tattoos would protect us. I guess this isn't that kind of possession. You're still in control, right?"

"I guess so," Sam says quietly. "I'm just... can you go away? Go get us dinner or something? Give me some, uh, time?"

Of course. If he's going to jerk off, the last thing he needs is his fucking brother standing right there, listening. Dean drops his head onto the door frame as that thought sends all the blood he needed to think rushing downwards.

"Sure," he says, stepping back. "Sure thing. Chinese?"

"Whatever, it's fine," Sam says, and Dean swears he can hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Shit. He's got to get out of here.

When he comes back, Sam is still locked in the bathroom. The first aid kit is gone from the bed, and Sam's duffel's been moved, so he must have come out and then retreated again to hide. Dean puts the take-out on the table and knocks on the door.

"C'mon, horn dog, come eat."

He hears movement. Sam opens the door a second later, just a sliver. "Can you hand it to me?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Come out of there. You're like way more paranoid than you need to be."

Sam shakes his head, and Dean can see the band-aids that cover his neck, and the white square of bandage taped to his arm. "It's not working. I mean, oh god. It's not enough, just... me. No, Dean, you're safer out there."

The silence is deafening. Sam's eyes get huge, and the door clicks shut, impossibly loud.

"Sam?"

"Shit," Sam hisses. "Oh god. I didn't mean. Dean."

"Sam," Dean says again, keeping his voice steady. "Open the door, or I will open it for you."

Another pause. The door eases open again, and Dean shoves his shoulder into the space before Sam can react. He grabs Sam by the arms and pulls him out into the room.

"Okay, so I'm going to ignore what you said," he says, pushing Sam towards the bed. Sam stumbles back and sits down awkwardly, clenching his hands on his thighs. Christ, he's _still_ hard, or hard again, Dean can't tell. It looks uncomfortable. The flush in Sam's face and the awkward pain in his eyes confirms that. "But you've got to eat. Then we'll go out, really, and-"

"No, Dean! I'm not going out. I'm not pushing this on anyone else. I've got to figure out a way to make it leave without... that."

"Fucking?" Dean asks, enjoying the way Sam blushed harder. "You're such a prude. I looked it up, man. All they want is sex. You've just got to get it out of your system, and then I think it'll leave."

"I tried, Dean," Sam says, and then he looks up. "You _think?_"

Damn. "Yeah." Dean shrugs and turns away, picking up the box of orange chicken. "They're not malevolent, not when they do this. They just want a thrill. I don't see why-" He starts to turn around again, and breaks off as Sam is right up in his space, silent as a cat, standing beside him, behind him, crowding him.

"Dean, I'm sorry," he says. "God, I'm so sorry." His hands are shaking.

"Oh shut up," Dean says, trying to keep his cool. Hot arousal is coming off Sam in waves, and Dean can feel himself reacting, getting hard. This is so not okay. "Sam-"

But Sam pushes his hands down and he drops the orange chicken back on the table. Sam's hands are gentle, now, skimming up his side and coming to rest on the curve of his shoulder. Sam leans in, and Dean cannot believe what the hell is happening. Sam presses one gentle kiss to Dean's mouth, slightly open in shock, and groans and pulls away. Dean brings up a hand to touch his lips. He can taste Sam, smell him, and his dick is apparently thrilled. He reaches out and takes a hold of Sam's waist. Sam drops his hands from his face in surprise.

"Dean, no, what-"

"Shh, it's okay," Dean murmurs, stepping close. He presses into Sam's space and up against his body. He tilts his head up, and Sam's mouth is _right there._ Up another degree, and their mouths meet again. Dean feels something in Sam snap, and Sam is wrapping his arms around Dean's shoulders, holding him close, licking into Dean's mouth. Dean slides his hands up Sam's back, humming, and when Sam pulls away from the kiss, his eyes are a bright blue.

Dean jerks backwards, out of his arms, stumbling against the table. "What the fuck!"

"What's wrong, Dean?" The voice is not Sam's anymore. It sounds rough, far away, sickly sweet. "This is so simple. He wants you. I want you."

"Fuck," Dean says. "Get out of him!"

"Doesn't work that way, Dean," the fairy says. "You'll need to... apply some force." Sam grins lewdly, and Dean shivers, placing his hands over Sam's.

"No. This isn't what you want, Sam."

"Dean," Sam (and it is Sam) pleads. "I'm sorry, man. It's right, though. Help me out here."

Dean finds himself smiling, urging Sam away with one hand. Sam sits on the bed again, forehead crinkled, making that upset puppy face. Dean leans down, shifts his weight, rests on his knees on the bed. He toes off his shoes, and lets Sam pull him in. "I'm not sorry. Don't worry about it."

"You want this," Sam whispers, in awe. Dean is again reminded how much fucking _bigger_ Sam is, as Sam leans forward and hugs him, tightly, almost chaste. But his mouth is at the level of Dean's ear, and Sam places a kiss on Dean's neck. Dean tilts his head back automatically, and Sam comes up to kiss him again. Sam's hands are spread across his back, and Dean lifts his own to Sam's waist, warm and firm and deliciously bare. Sam's kiss is gentle, testing him, and Dean opens his mouth. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it _right_. He kisses Sam fiercely, tongue and teeth, and Sam responds in kind. Sam's mouth is demanding now, matching Dean's aggression. _Fuck_ yeah, Sam's good at this.

Sam pulls at the bottom of his shirt, and Dean breaks the kiss to lean back and let Sam pull it over his head. They stare at each other for a moment, dazed, and then they're kissing again. Sam hugs Dean close, and this time, Dean's arms are over his head, so he brings them down and runs his hands through Sam's hair. Sam moans into his mouth, and Dean's dick is rock hard in his jeans. He can feel Sam, just as hard, digging into his thigh. Sam's strong hands knead the muscles in Dean's back, and Dean drops his head back, sighing. Sam's mouth is on his throat then, and Dean squeezes Sam's shoulders.

"Dean," Sam says, "I think you're gonna have to-"

"I know," Dean murmurs, body relaxing under Sam's massage.

"Okay," Sam replies. "Then I want, well...." Dean lifts his head, and Sam's grin is predatory. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Understatement."

Sam laughs, and Dean is comforted. Not that he needed comforting, he thinks. But he's glad to hear Sam laugh that laugh, the one that says 'don't be an idiot Dean,' and also 'I trust you.'

Dean kisses Sam again, and their hands get in each other's way as they try to undo their jeans, the other's jeans, their own jeans. It doesn't make sense, and finally Sam shoves Dean's hands away and unzips him. The head of his cock is already leaking a little wet spot on his boxers, and Sam's fingers find it as his hands slides along the hard ridge. He smirks, and Dean frowns.

"You want this so bad, man," Sam says, a mix of lust and amusement.

"You have no idea," Dean mutters. "Don't make this harder than it is."

"Not possible," Sam says, smiling at the stupid pun and pulling Dean's dick out through the hole in his boxers.

"Bitch," Dean says.

"Jerk," Sam replies automatically, and Dean grins. This should be weird, but it's not. Sam's got that little crooked smile on his face, and Dean knows it'll be all right. Even if it took swallowing a horny, sex-crazed, possessive fairy to get there. Dean places his hands on Sam's back, hard muscle and warm skin, and slides them down, under the waist of his jeans. He's not even wearing underwear, which seems both completely illogical, and completely Sam. Sam's mouthing his neck, and he squeezes. Sam moans.

Sam suddenly turns him, flipping him onto his back on the bed, and climbs astride him. He kisses Dean hard, greedily, and Dean's hands in his pants slide out again to unbutton them in front. Sam shoves his jeans down his hips, and his dick pops out, alongside Dean's. He's big, and rock hard, and flushed red, and Dean can't help the little grin of appreciation. Sam actually blushes, bless him. Now they're full on, hard and hot and rubbing against each other, humping like kids. Sam's tosses his head, flicking hair out of his eyes, and Dean grabs his arm. "Stop, man, stop, wait a minute."

"Dean-" Sam huffs, and Dean shakes his head.

"Once of us is going to get hurt," he says. "Zippers are the devil."

Sam laughs, rolls off him. He pulls at Dean's pants, and Dean lifts his hips. Sam tugs them off his feet and throws them on the floor. Then he gets up, slowly, and drops his jeans. Dean takes a breath and wets his lips. He's never allowed himself to really _look_ at Sam naked, and he's awed and thrilled and totally not nervous all of a sudden. Sam's ass is perfect. His back is broad, scarred, strong, but in perfect proportion with the rest of him. Sam turns around, gazing at Dean first in the mirror, and then straight on, and Dean can feel this crazy, needy laughter in his throat.

"Fuck yes," Sam whispers, and he kneels on the bed again, his hands on Dean's hips. "Dean, you're--"

"We're on a mission, Sam," Dean reminds him. He thinks Sam might have said, "right" or "yeah" or something like that, but it's muffled by-- oh shit, shit, yes-- Dean's cock in his mouth.

He's been blown before, but it has never been so good. His head drops back and his shoulders give way, and he fists a hand in Sam's hair. Sam grunts, and Dean loosens his grip, but not by much. Sam's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue is everywhere Dean wants it to be.

"Shit," he mutters, "don't stop, oh fuck, oh." Sam seems to like that, judging by the little moan of encouragement, and the increasing pace. "Yeah, Sammy," he continues, talking nonsense, "fuck yeah, so good, shit, Sam, c'mon, don't stop."

But then Sam does stop, and Dean gasps and pushes on his head, but he resists. The blue light is back in Sam's eyes, fierce, and Dean hates it. Sam slides up his body and they're kissing again, Dean's fingers still twined in his hair. Sam lines up their hips and pushes against him, testing at first, but Dean rolls his hips up and Sam moans into his mouth. Sam's hair is in Dean's eyes, but Dean doesn't care. He shifts his hands, solving the problem, pushing the hair out of Sam's face, and Sam is so fucking sexy right now he can't stand it. He closes his eyes again, loving the feel of Sam's nose against his, Sam's tongue in his mouth, Sam's hands on the backs of his shoulders, almost cradling him in his arms.

Dean shifts, whole body arching, and he rolls the two of them over, so he's on top of Sam. Sam laughs, the blue light flickers in delight, and Dean wants to crush it. He kisses Sam harder, and then Sam pushes him away.

"Fuck me," he says.

"Huh?" Dean asks, for some reason surprised.

"Fuck me," the fairy-voice repeats through Sam's mouth.

"I didn't think to get--" says Dean, pushing up on his hands and staring at Sam as if for the first time.

"I uh, have some," Sam interrupts, a little embarrassed. "In my duffel. In the bigger pocket. Under the shampoo."

"Shit, Sammy," Dean breathes. But he gets up and crosses the room. He rummages in the duffel, finds lube, a condom or two, and on the way back he turns off the light. Sam turns on the bedside lamp at the same time. Dean looks at the rumpled motel coverlet, the white pillows all over the place, and his brother, in the middle of the bed, one hand on his chest, one hand resting on his thigh, a little bruised, covered in fairy bites and band-aids, and totally, utterly, shameless. Dean can't tell whether that's the fairy or Sam, but he doesn't quite care anymore.

Sam reaches for him as he approaches, and Dean keeps his cool long enough to hover over Sam and kiss him, long and slow. Sam groans, pulling Dean to him. He says, "Dean," in a voice that is not his. Dean scowls, and the blue light flares, defiantly, taunting him.

"I'm gonna guess you've taken it before," Dean says, smile turning into a leer. No one gives blowjobs that spectacular without any practice. Sam nods, blushing again, but the way his eyes widen and he takes what could be a steadying breath betrays him. Dean pretends not to notice, and nudges Sam with his knee. Sam obliges, turns over, and buries his face between his elbows on the bed. Dean knees beside and behind him, admiring the expanse of Sam's back, tan and scarred and flawed and perfect. He rubs small circles in the small of Sam's back, murmuring nonsense to him. "Sam, Sammy, I never thought, I never once, not in a million years, not with all the shit we do, all the time, Sammy, you're so fuckin'," and so on. He presses kisses to Sam's throat and shoulder.

Sam relaxes marginally, moans into the bed. "Dean, come on, man. You're killing me."

Dean slides his fingers down, slippery now, and he can hear Sam draw in a breath sharply. He licks his lips and presses a wet kiss to the base of Sam's spine, taking care, easing Sam into it (easing his fingers into Sam). He moves his other hand from Sam's back, to Sam's thigh, and then to Sam's cock, which has softened a bit, but which returns quickly to full pulsing hardness with Dean's attention.

Two fingers, stretching and rubbing. Sam jerks and moans sharply when he finds the spot inside him. His slightly panicked breathing turns positive, encouraging, and Dean doesn't feel like waiting anymore. He pulls his fingers away (three now), and rolls on the rubber, shaking a bit. He's never felt so turned on, so completely awash with want, _need_, for Sammy. Then, as he's putting his slick hands on Sam's hips, as he's pushing his cockhead into Sam's perfect, tight ass, as he's biting his lip to hold back, he wonders if there's something else _Sam_ actually needs in order to get this stupid fairy out. But then again, does it really matter? He's not about to stop halfway through and call it a day. He'll finish what he started-- or what Sam started-- or stupid Holly, Colorado started.

"Dean," Sam growls, and Dean starts, pushing into Sam, hard. Sam yelps, surprised, and Dean immediately regrets his enthusiasm.

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry."

"Dean," Sam repeats, a warning in his voice. He turns his head, fairy-blue eyes blazing, and says, "Now."

Dean pulls back, the slick, tight slide making him moan in appreciation. Sam laughs, embarrassed. He pushes forwards again, and Sam's laugh breaks off. Again, and Sam murmurs. Again, and he says, "Oh!" all surprised, and Dean leans forwards and Sam turns his head, and they kiss, sloppily, over Sam's shoulder. Dean braces himself with one hand next to Sam's left elbow, sucking and licking at the back of Sam's neck and shoulder, but he can't keep up his pace in that position, too close, too tight, and he straightens up again. Sam's left hand disappears, and then he's groaning louder, fisting his own cock. Dean slides his hand down to help, sticky and slippery and smooth, and Sam gasps.

"Shit, fuck," Sam says, "Dean, fuck," and Dean's pretty sure he doesn't use language like that, but he likes it. His right hand grips Sam's hip, and suddenly Sam is tightening around him, his moans short and staccato, then he fucking _roars_ Dean's name, and Dean about loses his mind. Sam's coming over their hands, hot and sticky, and Dean can't stand it, and he comes too, a wave of heat and shuddering pleasure and _yes yes Sammy yes._

A few moments later he's catching his breath, forehead pressed to the center of Sam's sweaty back. Sam is resting his own forehead on the back of his (clean) hand, the other hand clenched tight in the sheets. Dean presses a kiss to his shoulder, and pulls away. Sam slumps to the side, gasps quietly, and looks up at Dean. His eyes are his own hazel, shining with that post-sex bliss, and with not a little bit of wonder. Dean leans over him and kisses him, sweetly, tongue pressing gently into his mouth, just tasting. Sam brings his hands up, but Dean grabs his wrist before he gets jizz in his hair, and Sam laughs.

Dean gets up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom, reappearing a moment or two later, clean, with a washcloth for Sam's hand. Sam is asleep. Dean wipes him down, carefully, almost shy, and then he climbs into bed beside him. Sam's huge frame takes up way too much space (this is why they don't share a bed, obviously), and Dean catches sight of the enormous hickey on Sam's throat. When did he do that? Jesus, the thing is huge. Dark purple. Probably hurts.

He turns off the light and finds that he fits almost perfectly into the space Sam has left him. _Little motherfuckin' spoon,_ he thinks, and then he catches sight of a tiny blue flash. It's hovering by the window, just winking at him.

"Get out," he hisses, loudly. "Get out of here." Sam stirs behind him in the dark, and then Sam's hand is resting on Dean's stomach. Just resting. The blue light winks out.

Dean falls asleep. It's only like 8:30, ridiculous. They'll be hungry in the morning.

+-+-+-+

Dean wakes up the next morning with his back pressed tight against Sam's side. Sam's a big guy, and he's not surprised that he shifted during the night, sprawling all over the goddamn place, taking up all the room. Dean squints at the light coming in around the edges of the curtain and can see the dinner they abandoned last night still sitting on the table. That'll be fun to clean up.

Then he remembers exactly why they neglected to eat, and exactly why he's lying here-- naked, he might add-- in bed, with Sam. Oh, fuck. He wasn't supposed to let that happen.

Just as he's starting to gear up for a really excellent freak out, Sam stirs. Dean knows the exact moment he wakes up by the way he inhales, and can feel his fingers twitch against his abs. He also knows the moment when Sam realizes where he is, because Sam freeze behind him, holding his breath again and then letting it out very, very quietly. He can tell Sam is trying to figure out what the fuck he should do next, and he decides to take it into his own hands, because when does Sam not need a push in the right direction from his older brother?

"Hey," he says, gentleness disguised in the morning-gruffness of his voice, "Can you stop thinking so fucking loud? Some of us are trying to sleep."

Sam stops trying to stealth-breathe and laughs instead. His hand comes out of nowhere and rests, warm and rough, on Dean's hip. Dean feels him shift and then Sam is snuggling up against his back again, curling his arm around Dean's waist and pressing his nose to the back of Dean's neck, somewhere under his ear. Dean sighs, unintentionally, and Sam's lips turn up in a smile. He kisses Dean's neck, and Dean almost manages to keep that stupid noise in.

"Dean," Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off by lifting his arm up and squirming his way to face him. Their chests are pressed together, and Dean replaces Sam's arm on his waist. Sam spreads his hand automatically on Dean's back, and Dean puts his own hand in the middle of Sam's chest.

"Okay, look," Dean says. "If you tell me right now that that fucking fairy made you do anything you didn't want to, I will get up out of this bed, and we can go about pretending this never happened."

"God, no," Sam whispers, and then looks like he hadn't meant to say that aloud.

Dean grins. "In that case, shut your mouth. It's too early for any kind of existential crisis."

"Okay," Sam agrees, and tilts his head forward. They share a few lazy, messy kisses, and then Sam closes his eyes and smiles, tracing Dean's cheekbone with his thumb, and Dean dozes off again listening to the traffic outside the motel.

Fuck yes, this is so going to work. Dean almost regrets wasting the fairy tree after all.


End file.
